Yes, I know, people usually hurl themselves DOWN flights of stairs, but this morning I saw a necessity to do things the other way for a change. Why? Well, to be honest, I have no idea.
I had a good night yesterday, which started off as looking like it was going to be a bad night. It all started when Housemate let me know she wasn’t feeling like going into town to catch the Sneak Preview, a standard staple for our working week. This annoyed me, as usually when she doesn’t feel like doing something she usually IS feeling like vegging out behind her computer for a night. This I usually don’t mind, but yesterday I wanted to do something.
No worries, a quick phone call later taught me she was mostly not looking forward to being home late and the chance of catching a bad movie, which is fair enough for me, and as I still owed her a dinner, it was easy to convince her to help me fill my evening. So off we went, biking through the rain, the diminutive women Housemate is nestled in the back of my coat to protect herself from the watery onslaught, on our way to a restaurant we had tried once before and liked.
About 5 minutes later, soaking wet and cold, not too mention miserable but somehow in a good mood, we stood in front of a closed restaurant. Not fun. Not to be disparaged, we adjourned to the restaurant across the street, as we had walked past it a few times before but not too good word of mouth had kept us from trying it out. Now, rain and coldness kept us from doing anything but try it out.
And a nicer forceful rain there has never been. Despite the incredible and tip-destroying gruffness of the staff, the dinner was excellent. On the mid-to-high side, cost-wise, but really very good. The entrees on their own consisted of a reasonable plateful of carpaccio for housemate, which despite being presented with all the charm and grace of a mud-flap still very much fulfilled her wishes, and my dove’s breast and pasta was a great way to start a meal as well.
Main course was a beautiful plate of deer for HM, and wild boar for myself, and really, pigs have something to learn from their wild counterparts. Finishing with French toast for housemate and vanilla ice cream profiterole for myself, we ended the meal well and truly stuffed, but pleased.
A few games of pool and a skype call with boyfriend deposited me in bed at around half twelve, very happy, and prepared to get up early this morning as the public transport was going to go on strike at 9 o’clock and I needed to be at work before that.
And I might as well say, I failed. Miserably. And wetly.
First off I slept right through my freaking alarm clocks. Yes… Multiple. No part measures for me, only the best is good enough, I go the distance. Only this morning, I did not go the distance. I did not even get started, actually.
So I woke up at the last possible moment to perhaps get the last possible bus, which would maybe deposit me at the transfer point at the last chance to get the last tram with a bit of luck.
Now the amounts of lasts and perhapses here should tip you off to the fact the undertaking did not instil me with a lot of confidence, and I did not look forward to the travelling to work today.
The bus was mercifully on time, even early, and the first leg of my travel was actually remarkably smooth. The fun started when I arrived at the place where I was supposed to catch the tram for the last bit of the journey. Now these trams roughly follow the route of an elevated highway at this point, and as a result I need to walk up a flight of stairs to get to the platform. These platforms are around second floor level, and the stairs are divided in three parts.
Anyways, I get out of the bus, and I hear my tram getting alongside the platform, so some speed is of the issue. Normally I would not run for a tram, but as there was a good chance it was going to be the last one to go for the next seven hours, I figured I should change my usual modus operandi a tad.
And thus, I hurled. I basically tried to sprint up the stairs, but it mainly consisted of me throwing myself up for two steps and being buffeted by people coming down them, putting me back a step. After doing some salmon jumps and throwing some people off the stairs, I arrived upside just in time get shoulderthumped by a big and annoying gentleman, and this thwarting served it’s purpose in a magnificent way, for I could here the tell tale sound of closing doors before I had recovered from his impact.
Missed the freaking tram. But I continue in the knowledge I left a smear of water, half rinsed shampoo and some of my blood on his clothing, so I have some vengeance there.
I was very happy to see that the next one was on the little board already, but I had no idea whether it was going to show, strike and all. But there was at this point nothing I could do other than getting rained upon, as there was also no bus going back home. Had no tram arrived, I’d have been stranded.
Luckily, it showed, near empty, but it was there. I took my seat, considered the fact that it was a few minutes to nine, and that it could possibly only take me a few stops closer to work before refusing to go all the way. So I stressed. And I stressed every time it approached a station, as it could be the last.
But, well, anticlimactic life intervened once more, and the tram pondered it’s way all the way to my stop, and I arrived at work. Late, but there.
And wet.
Really truly fucking dripping WET. It’s raining over here. And I got wet. I got wet on the day the entire European sales team is in my office for a meeting, and I come in looking like a fucking Kelpie victim. An annoyed Kelpie victim at that. Allthough, to be fair, after mounting a very nice horse, being unable to get off it, and being dragged by it into a watery grave would possibly piss me off a bit more than actually being rained upon, but not MUCH more, is all I am saying.
Anyways, back to work, I needed to vent for a second.
Stripes at 10110, from now on meaning “I envy Kelpie victims, they don’t have to meet new people”
Kevin.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
How Plato discovered bluffing
Yesterday after class one of my classmates asked me whether I believe in True Love, as she is having some “issues” with her personal situation, and is debating her take on the whole “love and relationship” thing.
Without going too far into the story behind it, there is an Ex, and he might not remain Ex for long. So naturally she is considering whether Ex is really the one for her or not, and if there even is something like a “the One”.
This reminded me of a few years ago, when I just moved to Ireland.
The company I started working for over there paid for a Bed&Breakfast for two weeks, giving employees the time and chance to find their own, permanent, accommodation. I was rather lucky here, having a B&B close to the bus lines and with multiple rooms, a friend of mine was secluded away in a beautiful house, which was nonetheless situated a 35 minute walk from the nearest neighbours, and surrounded by very spooky forestage.
Another plus was the fact I shared the place with other employees of my company, thusly solving the problem of “but what if I can’t find anybody to talk to?”
I met a very nice young woman this way, with whom I started to spend some time walking through town and talking.
Before long, as these things are wont to do, the rumours started to happen, and not long after that, they proved to be grounded somewhat in reality.
Well…. HER reality.
Apparently I was already part of some sort of fantasy, prompting her to start “showing up” at places at some very strange hours.
This could of course not continue, I don’t mind being stalked when I am pet-free as much, but I really liked her as a friend and her feelings for me seemed not the wisest guides on the path of life. The fact that “feelings for me” are NEVER the wisest things to follow should be mentioned here, I can be quite chaos-catalysing.
So we had a talk, considering how our friendship was moving and what could be done about her feelings for me. This met with instant resistance and denial, and some storming off and slamming doors, after which we didn’t really speak for half a year. After this period, some e-mails started to be sent, describing the fact that she did indeed have feelings for me then and didn’t know how to deal with the situation. Now I am not vindictive and don’t hold grudges, and I also make no apologies for human needs, as feelings can not be hypocritical or fake, as long as you are honest about them, and forgiveness was soon given.
We continued our friendship over a distance and sometimes trained over to each other’s houses to spend a weekend talking and watching movies, it was all quite comforting.
Until we were standing on a bus stop discussing the way life was going and she suddenly, offhandedly and without any idea she was doing it, destroyed my perceived chances of acquiring good dating karma.
We were speaking about love, life, and destiny when she suddenly said that at least her obsession with me and the lack of result taught her that for her there was no one true love. And I balked like a little mule in front of a big bridge. Made of fire. A wood mule.
Because I do believe in True Love, deep down I am a romantic and sappy person, and I like little better than the idea that somewhere, somehow, everything is all right.
To then be used as evidence in someone else’s cynicism without beforehand giving this person ample reason and argument was unexpected and unwanted.
I don’t necessarily believe that there is One True Love, someone who will be the one and only for ever and ever, I think that this is fine for some but not for all and only living a full live will tell you what camp you end up in. I think there are a multitude of people who make a life a little more complete, and some who possibly could but you never meet, and some who could but don’t.
When humans first started being human, there were only a few of us, so only a few souls to go around. Creationism can be aligned with Plato to give us a “split soul” theory, which also ties in nicely with popular culture and soul mates. But it doesn’t end there.
There are 6 billion people on the planet, starting with only a comparative handful. So the souls must have split over and over again, and are most likely still doing so, even counting reincarnation, as some must go to Nirvana or Hades after all their cycles, not too mention that there are still more people being born.
So it seems logical that all these first souls have split over and over again, leaving us all with pieces of a complete one. Also the reason why you meet the same people in every life, all be it in different roles. They could simply have been parts of the same soul you as well were part of once.
It also means that there are many different people who can be your soul mate, and many ways for them to be so. Nobody knows exactly where they fit into the puzzle, and nobody needs to know, as long as there are still people/pieces around us who give us the relative perspective, and teach us the lessons we need to learn over the course of a lifetime. Friends, family, people you meet on a bus but who do change your outlook on life, they all were once part of the same being, and they all still have this effect on you because the soul recognizes it’s own, this recognition may well be the origin of love, friendship and trust, but also the base of hate and dissent, as who has personalities that all align perfectly?
So I believe that life brings us in touch with ourselves in more ways than one, and using more people than one, so it could be foolish to say that there is only one person to love on the planet. Also, if there is, and mine lives in Greenland/Australia/Brabant, how am I supposed to meet this person?
This last question might prove my optimism, as no matter how often I see God’s (dis) involvement in humanities happiness, I still do not believe hesheitthem would knowingly screw up someone’s life without a good reason, and usually the chance to meet will be there through moving, blind luck, vacations or internet. The fact that Boyfriend hails from the other side of the planet and all is an argument here, but I’m not sure yet if it is for or against my thesis…
So yes, I do believe in true love, and even in multiple true loves, but part of me still thinks there should be only one. I blame popular culture. I am luckily enough of a realist to appreciate what is there now, and to take things as they come. But I also like to keep the possibility of forever in the back of my mind. And will remain doing so for the foreseeable future.
I’ll tell you whether I was right in about a thousand years, providing I can keep up the immortality I have been practicing for the past 25 years.
Till then, stripes at half open,
Kevin
Ps. Also, the title to this blog is a VERY obscure pun, even for me, so I will explain it here.
**********Spoilerline****************
Plato wrote in his Symposium about how humanity used to look different from our current outlook, when we used to have four legs, for arms, two head. There were three sexes then, one man-man, one man-woman, and one woman-woman. The details and reasoning is a bit hazy for me, but the Gods split us up into the halfs of a whole we are now, and the pain of this separation was love. True love is described as finding the other half of the being you once were.
For details, check out Plato, he did some fine writing.
Now, true love is also what Wesley answers with the help of some bellows in "The Princess Bride" when he is almost dead and asked why he is hanging on. Only because he is basically dead and his lips don't work well, the magician interprets his words as "Two Blave", meaning to bluff.
Ok, those with somewhat refined senses of humour will kill me for the title-pun, lovers of philosophy for the bastardizing of Plato, and sappy 80's kids for the desecration of TPB, so I am dead either way, but as Housemate falls in all three of the categories she will most likely call first dibs. Which I now negate by doing so myself, as I do as well fall in all three categories.
Dibs.
Without going too far into the story behind it, there is an Ex, and he might not remain Ex for long. So naturally she is considering whether Ex is really the one for her or not, and if there even is something like a “the One”.
This reminded me of a few years ago, when I just moved to Ireland.
The company I started working for over there paid for a Bed&Breakfast for two weeks, giving employees the time and chance to find their own, permanent, accommodation. I was rather lucky here, having a B&B close to the bus lines and with multiple rooms, a friend of mine was secluded away in a beautiful house, which was nonetheless situated a 35 minute walk from the nearest neighbours, and surrounded by very spooky forestage.
Another plus was the fact I shared the place with other employees of my company, thusly solving the problem of “but what if I can’t find anybody to talk to?”
I met a very nice young woman this way, with whom I started to spend some time walking through town and talking.
Before long, as these things are wont to do, the rumours started to happen, and not long after that, they proved to be grounded somewhat in reality.
Well…. HER reality.
Apparently I was already part of some sort of fantasy, prompting her to start “showing up” at places at some very strange hours.
This could of course not continue, I don’t mind being stalked when I am pet-free as much, but I really liked her as a friend and her feelings for me seemed not the wisest guides on the path of life. The fact that “feelings for me” are NEVER the wisest things to follow should be mentioned here, I can be quite chaos-catalysing.
So we had a talk, considering how our friendship was moving and what could be done about her feelings for me. This met with instant resistance and denial, and some storming off and slamming doors, after which we didn’t really speak for half a year. After this period, some e-mails started to be sent, describing the fact that she did indeed have feelings for me then and didn’t know how to deal with the situation. Now I am not vindictive and don’t hold grudges, and I also make no apologies for human needs, as feelings can not be hypocritical or fake, as long as you are honest about them, and forgiveness was soon given.
We continued our friendship over a distance and sometimes trained over to each other’s houses to spend a weekend talking and watching movies, it was all quite comforting.
Until we were standing on a bus stop discussing the way life was going and she suddenly, offhandedly and without any idea she was doing it, destroyed my perceived chances of acquiring good dating karma.
We were speaking about love, life, and destiny when she suddenly said that at least her obsession with me and the lack of result taught her that for her there was no one true love. And I balked like a little mule in front of a big bridge. Made of fire. A wood mule.
Because I do believe in True Love, deep down I am a romantic and sappy person, and I like little better than the idea that somewhere, somehow, everything is all right.
To then be used as evidence in someone else’s cynicism without beforehand giving this person ample reason and argument was unexpected and unwanted.
I don’t necessarily believe that there is One True Love, someone who will be the one and only for ever and ever, I think that this is fine for some but not for all and only living a full live will tell you what camp you end up in. I think there are a multitude of people who make a life a little more complete, and some who possibly could but you never meet, and some who could but don’t.
When humans first started being human, there were only a few of us, so only a few souls to go around. Creationism can be aligned with Plato to give us a “split soul” theory, which also ties in nicely with popular culture and soul mates. But it doesn’t end there.
There are 6 billion people on the planet, starting with only a comparative handful. So the souls must have split over and over again, and are most likely still doing so, even counting reincarnation, as some must go to Nirvana or Hades after all their cycles, not too mention that there are still more people being born.
So it seems logical that all these first souls have split over and over again, leaving us all with pieces of a complete one. Also the reason why you meet the same people in every life, all be it in different roles. They could simply have been parts of the same soul you as well were part of once.
It also means that there are many different people who can be your soul mate, and many ways for them to be so. Nobody knows exactly where they fit into the puzzle, and nobody needs to know, as long as there are still people/pieces around us who give us the relative perspective, and teach us the lessons we need to learn over the course of a lifetime. Friends, family, people you meet on a bus but who do change your outlook on life, they all were once part of the same being, and they all still have this effect on you because the soul recognizes it’s own, this recognition may well be the origin of love, friendship and trust, but also the base of hate and dissent, as who has personalities that all align perfectly?
So I believe that life brings us in touch with ourselves in more ways than one, and using more people than one, so it could be foolish to say that there is only one person to love on the planet. Also, if there is, and mine lives in Greenland/Australia/Brabant, how am I supposed to meet this person?
This last question might prove my optimism, as no matter how often I see God’s (dis) involvement in humanities happiness, I still do not believe hesheitthem would knowingly screw up someone’s life without a good reason, and usually the chance to meet will be there through moving, blind luck, vacations or internet. The fact that Boyfriend hails from the other side of the planet and all is an argument here, but I’m not sure yet if it is for or against my thesis…
So yes, I do believe in true love, and even in multiple true loves, but part of me still thinks there should be only one. I blame popular culture. I am luckily enough of a realist to appreciate what is there now, and to take things as they come. But I also like to keep the possibility of forever in the back of my mind. And will remain doing so for the foreseeable future.
I’ll tell you whether I was right in about a thousand years, providing I can keep up the immortality I have been practicing for the past 25 years.
Till then, stripes at half open,
Kevin
Ps. Also, the title to this blog is a VERY obscure pun, even for me, so I will explain it here.
**********Spoilerline****************
Plato wrote in his Symposium about how humanity used to look different from our current outlook, when we used to have four legs, for arms, two head. There were three sexes then, one man-man, one man-woman, and one woman-woman. The details and reasoning is a bit hazy for me, but the Gods split us up into the halfs of a whole we are now, and the pain of this separation was love. True love is described as finding the other half of the being you once were.
For details, check out Plato, he did some fine writing.
Now, true love is also what Wesley answers with the help of some bellows in "The Princess Bride" when he is almost dead and asked why he is hanging on. Only because he is basically dead and his lips don't work well, the magician interprets his words as "Two Blave", meaning to bluff.
Ok, those with somewhat refined senses of humour will kill me for the title-pun, lovers of philosophy for the bastardizing of Plato, and sappy 80's kids for the desecration of TPB, so I am dead either way, but as Housemate falls in all three of the categories she will most likely call first dibs. Which I now negate by doing so myself, as I do as well fall in all three categories.
Dibs.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Altercations in Public Transport, a rant in three parts.
.I.
A few weeks ago, myself and the person who would shortly after that take up the role of Boyfriend were on the last bus into Amsterdam from my tiny place of residence. Well, the town is tiny, my house has an ample size. It needs to, as it has to accommodate my considerable and slow-moving bulk alongside the petite but fast-moving one of Housemate (she doesn’t think she is small, but she is, it’s that simple).
Anyway, we were on the last bus into town on a Saturday night, and at one of the stops a small group of people got on the bus, or attempted to get on the bus. Attempted, because one of these people was carrying a can of drink. Now, the pictograms stating that it is not allowed to do this have long since been taken from the busses in Holland, but the driver still decides who is allowed on his big yellow-green contraption. And in this particular case, the entire group was, except for the can.
Now what this particular can had ever done to the driver, I have no knowledge of, but I wager it had less to do with the can than it had to do with the incredible stupidity and horrendous arrogance emanating from the girl holding on to it.
This is all nice and well, of course, except the blonde bint refused to toss the can, or drink it really fast and get on the bus. Fair enough, get out of the bus, and stop whining, I would say.
Not her though… nooooo… The very idea of not whining would not have entered this young women’s brain had it hacked its way in there with an ice-pick and a blowtorch.
So she whined. And the driver refused. And then, to top off a situation already fraught with tension and aggressiveness (from me) her friend, who I am going to be referring to in my mind as Sluttana Slutford, decided to be diplomatic.
Now I like diplomacy. It is after all the art of saying “nice doggy” while looking for a rolled up newspaper, but in this particular case this girl was saying “nice doggy” to a canine who had it’s own rolled up newspaper, a large one. With wheels.
Also, el Slutto had about the diplomatic savvy of a drunk hyena trying to weasel his way into a high class country club by insulting the bellboys.
Predictably, the charm offensive failed, and the blonde bimbo still had not taken even a sip of her stupid drink, and the driver shut down the bus.
Let’s all say this: He shut down the bus.
MY BUS!
By now we had been standing there about twenty minutes, all late and annoyed, and now this person had caused a bus full of people to completely abandon all pretence of going further. Understandably, there were those who had something to say about this.
Soon the cries of “just toss the can or piss OFF” started to be heard from the back of the bus, whereas Sluttana had started to be noticeably aggressive towards the poor bus driver.
Now I do not directly agree with his stance, after all, the people seemed not all that drunk, and the chance of the can of drink being forcibly moving through the bus on its’ own seemed remote. But the simple fact of the matter is that he has the deciding “captain of the ship” like vote in the matter.
In the end, fearing they might be pummelled to death by the Saturday night crowd, the stupidity-team left the bus, shouting they’d wait for the next one (which would be along in about six hours) and we continued.
..II..
Not too long ago Housemate and I were on the bus back home. At some point in time I heard something behind me that sounded suspiciously like “All faggots must die” Now I hardly ever jump to conclusions, and wanted to hear a bit more about what was transpiring those few rows behind me. As I had just kissed Boyfriend goodnight when entering the bus, it seemed likely that this comment had been spurred by my actions. Housemate however was seethingly jumping into the fray as soon as she realized the topic of conversation.
Well, jumping into the fray… Housemate and I both believe that everybody has a right to their opinion, and I myself have at some point in time made the point that at least 95% of all homosexuals would be better of with a good dose of death in their diets.
But more important than the point made is the way a point is made, and this person was making his point at an incredibly loud tone of voice, and peppered with expletives. It was this, more than anything, which annoyed Housemate.
So she turned around, and politely asked him to either speak a tad softer, or speak in a way more suitable for public transport.
No go. Apparently “young people” nowadays (us) would have had a difficult time making themselves understood in whatever backwater dump this person grew up. The good man insisted that he had a right to his opinion (true) and that we should move to the back of the bus if we couldn’t take it (false)
Housemate kept politely trying to convince him that she did agree with the right to his opinion, but that she would like him to tone it down a second.
This obviously escalated. He started speaking louder and spouting more political blatant incorrectness, Housemate responded in polite but scathing fashion, I myself put my two cents in wherever I saw an option.
At one point, I turned back facing the front of the bus again and put forth to the ether my opinions on the situation, using, at one point, the word “shit”.
This prompted our friendly neighbourhood troglodyte to tell Housemate to tell her boyfriend to mind his language. This obviously after he had spent 15 minutes hosing us down with spittle and extremely right winged stupidity, so one might imagine the effect this had on both Housemate and me.
So I turned round, and told the good man that I was not her boyfriend, but that I am usually my boyfriends boyfriend. Housemate turned round, and told him that he could always sit further down the bus if this really bothered him.
He didn’t, but did get off at the next stop. Regretfully, we will never know if this was his actual stop or that he decided to wait for the next bus, but one can hope.
He did however leave us with a lot of unused adrenaline. Housemate had just about build up her battle aura, and I was getting well ready to use the “and listen now, you horrid little man” voice, all to no avail. So we spent the rest of the bus trip quietly seething, and muttering to each other about the state of the world.
Coming home Housemate did a nice rendition of the word “fuck” at the top of her voice on our little square, but one can imagine this hardly did anything for her frazzled disposition.
…III…
This weekend I was taking my usual bus home, and using my time talking to Boyfriend on the phone, when I noticed a young boy entering the bus, carrying his dog.
Now when I say carrying, this might call forth an image of a young boy, cradling a small dog in his arms, shielding it from the danger of outside and the inherent risks a bus poses to small dogs.
Wrong.
He carried that little dog as I would a rugby ball, he had the dog by it’s doggy shoulders, carrying it at arms stretched, and swinging it every which way (this is hard to do with a rugby ball, but I am sure I managed). The dog looked absolutely terrified, and seemed to be in some pain. I was about to say something when he put the dog on a seat and sat down, so I figured it was fine for now. Soon enough he was joined by people I assume were his brother and mother, judging from the striking similarity in god awful unattractiveness.
Boys started talking, one of the two, I’m betting the youngest, in such a volume and pitch that my glasses started vibrating so badly I was fearing for my eyes. Boyfriend lost a couple of drinking glasses just having the phone line open at the unfortunate moment the boy had just inhaled and saw something of interest.
And boy did these guys saw things of interest.
Now don’t get me wrong, I think Amsterdam, and especially the southern part, is a very beautiful city, and when one takes his eyes upwards a bit to take a look at the architecture even more so. I myself tend to admire the small streets and the particular schools of design on view.
But these guys would’ve been amazed and most likely a little frightened at your average garden variety rock, judging by the things they exclaimed excitedly at. I swear at one point one of them noticed his own hand, and thusly prompted a barrage of squeals and shrieks not heard since 1478, when a mouse was doing backstrokes in the ornamental fountain in the seraglio of wonky lord Harold Pier-Habsburg, collector of peacocks and sexual deviant, known to only get his rocks of with castrato’s during concerto’s for violin and flute.
Gods but these kids were loud.
Now it is rarely my place to admonish others on the subject of whelp-rearing, but when Boyfriend had cleaned up the splinters and asked me what that infernal noise was, I had very little choice but to explain to him the situation I found myself in. The mother obviously heard me, and started throwing me some dirty looks. Not that I cared, she was throwing them the wrong way, after all, as they should have gone to her monstrous offspring.
They luckily got off before long, but regretfully not before putting the dog on the bus floor in front of the door, and then yanking it by it’s chain down the three high steps on to the pavement. Had I gotten off at the same stop they did, I’d have exploded at them. As it was, I didn’t get the chance.
--------------------------
Two blogs in two days, indeed, I was struck by inspiration, apparently.
Stripes at half open,
Kevin
A few weeks ago, myself and the person who would shortly after that take up the role of Boyfriend were on the last bus into Amsterdam from my tiny place of residence. Well, the town is tiny, my house has an ample size. It needs to, as it has to accommodate my considerable and slow-moving bulk alongside the petite but fast-moving one of Housemate (she doesn’t think she is small, but she is, it’s that simple).
Anyway, we were on the last bus into town on a Saturday night, and at one of the stops a small group of people got on the bus, or attempted to get on the bus. Attempted, because one of these people was carrying a can of drink. Now, the pictograms stating that it is not allowed to do this have long since been taken from the busses in Holland, but the driver still decides who is allowed on his big yellow-green contraption. And in this particular case, the entire group was, except for the can.
Now what this particular can had ever done to the driver, I have no knowledge of, but I wager it had less to do with the can than it had to do with the incredible stupidity and horrendous arrogance emanating from the girl holding on to it.
This is all nice and well, of course, except the blonde bint refused to toss the can, or drink it really fast and get on the bus. Fair enough, get out of the bus, and stop whining, I would say.
Not her though… nooooo… The very idea of not whining would not have entered this young women’s brain had it hacked its way in there with an ice-pick and a blowtorch.
So she whined. And the driver refused. And then, to top off a situation already fraught with tension and aggressiveness (from me) her friend, who I am going to be referring to in my mind as Sluttana Slutford, decided to be diplomatic.
Now I like diplomacy. It is after all the art of saying “nice doggy” while looking for a rolled up newspaper, but in this particular case this girl was saying “nice doggy” to a canine who had it’s own rolled up newspaper, a large one. With wheels.
Also, el Slutto had about the diplomatic savvy of a drunk hyena trying to weasel his way into a high class country club by insulting the bellboys.
Predictably, the charm offensive failed, and the blonde bimbo still had not taken even a sip of her stupid drink, and the driver shut down the bus.
Let’s all say this: He shut down the bus.
MY BUS!
By now we had been standing there about twenty minutes, all late and annoyed, and now this person had caused a bus full of people to completely abandon all pretence of going further. Understandably, there were those who had something to say about this.
Soon the cries of “just toss the can or piss OFF” started to be heard from the back of the bus, whereas Sluttana had started to be noticeably aggressive towards the poor bus driver.
Now I do not directly agree with his stance, after all, the people seemed not all that drunk, and the chance of the can of drink being forcibly moving through the bus on its’ own seemed remote. But the simple fact of the matter is that he has the deciding “captain of the ship” like vote in the matter.
In the end, fearing they might be pummelled to death by the Saturday night crowd, the stupidity-team left the bus, shouting they’d wait for the next one (which would be along in about six hours) and we continued.
..II..
Not too long ago Housemate and I were on the bus back home. At some point in time I heard something behind me that sounded suspiciously like “All faggots must die” Now I hardly ever jump to conclusions, and wanted to hear a bit more about what was transpiring those few rows behind me. As I had just kissed Boyfriend goodnight when entering the bus, it seemed likely that this comment had been spurred by my actions. Housemate however was seethingly jumping into the fray as soon as she realized the topic of conversation.
Well, jumping into the fray… Housemate and I both believe that everybody has a right to their opinion, and I myself have at some point in time made the point that at least 95% of all homosexuals would be better of with a good dose of death in their diets.
But more important than the point made is the way a point is made, and this person was making his point at an incredibly loud tone of voice, and peppered with expletives. It was this, more than anything, which annoyed Housemate.
So she turned around, and politely asked him to either speak a tad softer, or speak in a way more suitable for public transport.
No go. Apparently “young people” nowadays (us) would have had a difficult time making themselves understood in whatever backwater dump this person grew up. The good man insisted that he had a right to his opinion (true) and that we should move to the back of the bus if we couldn’t take it (false)
Housemate kept politely trying to convince him that she did agree with the right to his opinion, but that she would like him to tone it down a second.
This obviously escalated. He started speaking louder and spouting more political blatant incorrectness, Housemate responded in polite but scathing fashion, I myself put my two cents in wherever I saw an option.
At one point, I turned back facing the front of the bus again and put forth to the ether my opinions on the situation, using, at one point, the word “shit”.
This prompted our friendly neighbourhood troglodyte to tell Housemate to tell her boyfriend to mind his language. This obviously after he had spent 15 minutes hosing us down with spittle and extremely right winged stupidity, so one might imagine the effect this had on both Housemate and me.
So I turned round, and told the good man that I was not her boyfriend, but that I am usually my boyfriends boyfriend. Housemate turned round, and told him that he could always sit further down the bus if this really bothered him.
He didn’t, but did get off at the next stop. Regretfully, we will never know if this was his actual stop or that he decided to wait for the next bus, but one can hope.
He did however leave us with a lot of unused adrenaline. Housemate had just about build up her battle aura, and I was getting well ready to use the “and listen now, you horrid little man” voice, all to no avail. So we spent the rest of the bus trip quietly seething, and muttering to each other about the state of the world.
Coming home Housemate did a nice rendition of the word “fuck” at the top of her voice on our little square, but one can imagine this hardly did anything for her frazzled disposition.
…III…
This weekend I was taking my usual bus home, and using my time talking to Boyfriend on the phone, when I noticed a young boy entering the bus, carrying his dog.
Now when I say carrying, this might call forth an image of a young boy, cradling a small dog in his arms, shielding it from the danger of outside and the inherent risks a bus poses to small dogs.
Wrong.
He carried that little dog as I would a rugby ball, he had the dog by it’s doggy shoulders, carrying it at arms stretched, and swinging it every which way (this is hard to do with a rugby ball, but I am sure I managed). The dog looked absolutely terrified, and seemed to be in some pain. I was about to say something when he put the dog on a seat and sat down, so I figured it was fine for now. Soon enough he was joined by people I assume were his brother and mother, judging from the striking similarity in god awful unattractiveness.
Boys started talking, one of the two, I’m betting the youngest, in such a volume and pitch that my glasses started vibrating so badly I was fearing for my eyes. Boyfriend lost a couple of drinking glasses just having the phone line open at the unfortunate moment the boy had just inhaled and saw something of interest.
And boy did these guys saw things of interest.
Now don’t get me wrong, I think Amsterdam, and especially the southern part, is a very beautiful city, and when one takes his eyes upwards a bit to take a look at the architecture even more so. I myself tend to admire the small streets and the particular schools of design on view.
But these guys would’ve been amazed and most likely a little frightened at your average garden variety rock, judging by the things they exclaimed excitedly at. I swear at one point one of them noticed his own hand, and thusly prompted a barrage of squeals and shrieks not heard since 1478, when a mouse was doing backstrokes in the ornamental fountain in the seraglio of wonky lord Harold Pier-Habsburg, collector of peacocks and sexual deviant, known to only get his rocks of with castrato’s during concerto’s for violin and flute.
Gods but these kids were loud.
Now it is rarely my place to admonish others on the subject of whelp-rearing, but when Boyfriend had cleaned up the splinters and asked me what that infernal noise was, I had very little choice but to explain to him the situation I found myself in. The mother obviously heard me, and started throwing me some dirty looks. Not that I cared, she was throwing them the wrong way, after all, as they should have gone to her monstrous offspring.
They luckily got off before long, but regretfully not before putting the dog on the bus floor in front of the door, and then yanking it by it’s chain down the three high steps on to the pavement. Had I gotten off at the same stop they did, I’d have exploded at them. As it was, I didn’t get the chance.
--------------------------
Two blogs in two days, indeed, I was struck by inspiration, apparently.
Stripes at half open,
Kevin
Monday, November 06, 2006
Fashion, sneakers, shopping.
I have allowed myself to be swayed by the demands of fashion and trend, and have made a purchase this weekend that is quite unlike me in more ways than one.
This weekend the boyfriend and I have made a shopping expedition into the city, mainly to get some inspiration for decorating his hovel-ish abode. The fact that we went in on a Saturday, a day everybody knows is designed to test the patience of every window shopper ever while simultaneously providing every windowshopper ever with the chance to dally in front of storefronts, thereby testing the patience of all OTHER windowshoppers should make it hardly surprising that the amount of inspiration gathered was at best minuscule, and at worst to be described with the idea “But what exactly is WRONG with decorating the small wall with the entrails of the short and annoying woman right in front of me?”
To keep either one of us from disembowelling fellow shoppers with the sharper bones of other fellow shoppers, we decided to take a venture into a calmer part of town, and pay a visit to Boyfriend’s Dog. Dog, name of George, seemed to enjoy this small bit of attention very much, and I have decided to forgive him the usual doggy tendency to be highest up by using my head as a step and/or resting place for the sheer enthusiasm he put to light for trying to eat my hand.
After having taken the dog for a walk and spending some time doing relaxation exercises to steel ourselves for the onslaught of annoyance we were bound to encounter on the walk back to the bus, I suddenly remembered that the reason for me to go into town in the first place was to get new shoes. Shoes, the one item of clothing I truly despise shopping for.
Now I usually wear basic black, basic model shoes without much frillyness, and I maintain to others that this is for simple style reasons. This is a blatant lie.
I wear them because there is no gender ambiguity.
Shoe-stores confuse me, especially modern shoe-stores. All those same basic model white sneakerthingies and people milling about between them… I am never sure whether I am on the right side of the store or not. I like old-fashioned shoe-stores where the areas were clearly indicated, and the chance of being wrong was further negated by the fact that I, as a man, had no business in the part of the store with all the glitter and heals.
The fact that I am now a confirmed genderfucker makes this in no way easier, as I hate doing that by mistake as much as I like doing it on purpose.
So I have steered clear of sneakers in the past, until this Saturday. Armed and bolstered by Boyfriend, who is a sneaker-wearing person, I decided to brave the confusion and find some shoes. And I did. Yay!
I am now the proud owner of a pair of white K-Swiss sneakers, with dark red detailing, and a dark red/light red stripe shifter system.
And I love them. As usual, I have purchased an item of clothing I really like, and I can’t stop talking about them.
I never really liked sneakers, they make the foot a good deal flatter, and on people with large feet, the idea of a walking “L” is hard to escape.
But I love my new white sneakers.
But now a new problem arises. The Stripe Shifter system is designed to enable one to use their shoes as a medium for communication. The idea is that the stripes on the side of the sneakers can be “opened” or “closed” with slides on the stripes, making them either dark red or light red, or other colours as the case might be. And different combinations would carry a specific message. This can be quite elaborate, actually, as both shoes have two sides, with five slides each, who can all independent of the rest can be recognizably at open, closed, or half-way. This means that there are 20 slots with three options, totalling a 3 to the 20th amount of options, which accoridng to my calculator means 3.486.784.401 options.
I am not taking the option that the stripes can be worn at quarters or thirds as well, the options would grow higher, but the indication is hard to differentiate between.
Best is it, obviously, to maintain the same config on all sets of 5, giving a mere 243 different combinations.
This is all nice and well, providing people would get their freaking head round what a certain combination would actually MEAN.
So far I have been able to find out that all open means “gay”, which would be fine but is unlikely, as all stripes open negates the idea of the shifter, and it seems a tremendously non-straight idea. And all slides at half mast is “respect” which is fine by me as it is the config I find most visually pleasing.
But what if I decide to alternate? Is 2nd and 4th of the 5 stripes open a good thing, a bad thing? What if I am signalling my allegiance to CDA? What if I by wearing my shoes thusly protest for the treatment of Dutch Elm Disease by burning puppies (Hush Puppies, most like, considering competition wars and all that)?
Looking through Google results hardly helps, the manufacturers site gives no useful information, and nobody I know wears the things…
Can anybody help me out here?
I have pondered the idea of putting my age in, as 10011 should be 25, and open-closed-closed-open-open is an acceptable configuration, but then, who understands binary except for true geeks, and they hardly ever look at people’s shoes. It would be a good way to find the few fashion conscious geeks, but then I am already training Boyfriend to be one of those, and really, with me being one as well, I am already pushing critical mass… Indicating an age will become problematic in 7 years when I get above 32 years old, but that is a problem I will tackle then.
Until then, all stripes at half open,
Kevin.
This weekend the boyfriend and I have made a shopping expedition into the city, mainly to get some inspiration for decorating his hovel-ish abode. The fact that we went in on a Saturday, a day everybody knows is designed to test the patience of every window shopper ever while simultaneously providing every windowshopper ever with the chance to dally in front of storefronts, thereby testing the patience of all OTHER windowshoppers should make it hardly surprising that the amount of inspiration gathered was at best minuscule, and at worst to be described with the idea “But what exactly is WRONG with decorating the small wall with the entrails of the short and annoying woman right in front of me?”
To keep either one of us from disembowelling fellow shoppers with the sharper bones of other fellow shoppers, we decided to take a venture into a calmer part of town, and pay a visit to Boyfriend’s Dog. Dog, name of George, seemed to enjoy this small bit of attention very much, and I have decided to forgive him the usual doggy tendency to be highest up by using my head as a step and/or resting place for the sheer enthusiasm he put to light for trying to eat my hand.
After having taken the dog for a walk and spending some time doing relaxation exercises to steel ourselves for the onslaught of annoyance we were bound to encounter on the walk back to the bus, I suddenly remembered that the reason for me to go into town in the first place was to get new shoes. Shoes, the one item of clothing I truly despise shopping for.
Now I usually wear basic black, basic model shoes without much frillyness, and I maintain to others that this is for simple style reasons. This is a blatant lie.
I wear them because there is no gender ambiguity.
Shoe-stores confuse me, especially modern shoe-stores. All those same basic model white sneakerthingies and people milling about between them… I am never sure whether I am on the right side of the store or not. I like old-fashioned shoe-stores where the areas were clearly indicated, and the chance of being wrong was further negated by the fact that I, as a man, had no business in the part of the store with all the glitter and heals.
The fact that I am now a confirmed genderfucker makes this in no way easier, as I hate doing that by mistake as much as I like doing it on purpose.
So I have steered clear of sneakers in the past, until this Saturday. Armed and bolstered by Boyfriend, who is a sneaker-wearing person, I decided to brave the confusion and find some shoes. And I did. Yay!
I am now the proud owner of a pair of white K-Swiss sneakers, with dark red detailing, and a dark red/light red stripe shifter system.
And I love them. As usual, I have purchased an item of clothing I really like, and I can’t stop talking about them.
I never really liked sneakers, they make the foot a good deal flatter, and on people with large feet, the idea of a walking “L” is hard to escape.
But I love my new white sneakers.
But now a new problem arises. The Stripe Shifter system is designed to enable one to use their shoes as a medium for communication. The idea is that the stripes on the side of the sneakers can be “opened” or “closed” with slides on the stripes, making them either dark red or light red, or other colours as the case might be. And different combinations would carry a specific message. This can be quite elaborate, actually, as both shoes have two sides, with five slides each, who can all independent of the rest can be recognizably at open, closed, or half-way. This means that there are 20 slots with three options, totalling a 3 to the 20th amount of options, which accoridng to my calculator means 3.486.784.401 options.
I am not taking the option that the stripes can be worn at quarters or thirds as well, the options would grow higher, but the indication is hard to differentiate between.
Best is it, obviously, to maintain the same config on all sets of 5, giving a mere 243 different combinations.
This is all nice and well, providing people would get their freaking head round what a certain combination would actually MEAN.
So far I have been able to find out that all open means “gay”, which would be fine but is unlikely, as all stripes open negates the idea of the shifter, and it seems a tremendously non-straight idea. And all slides at half mast is “respect” which is fine by me as it is the config I find most visually pleasing.
But what if I decide to alternate? Is 2nd and 4th of the 5 stripes open a good thing, a bad thing? What if I am signalling my allegiance to CDA? What if I by wearing my shoes thusly protest for the treatment of Dutch Elm Disease by burning puppies (Hush Puppies, most like, considering competition wars and all that)?
Looking through Google results hardly helps, the manufacturers site gives no useful information, and nobody I know wears the things…
Can anybody help me out here?
I have pondered the idea of putting my age in, as 10011 should be 25, and open-closed-closed-open-open is an acceptable configuration, but then, who understands binary except for true geeks, and they hardly ever look at people’s shoes. It would be a good way to find the few fashion conscious geeks, but then I am already training Boyfriend to be one of those, and really, with me being one as well, I am already pushing critical mass… Indicating an age will become problematic in 7 years when I get above 32 years old, but that is a problem I will tackle then.
Until then, all stripes at half open,
Kevin.
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